


The Aftereffect

by NeoNails



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Morning After, Romance, Sex Under the Influence (Alcohol), Sexy Times, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoNails/pseuds/NeoNails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One bad decision can turn into the worst night of your life in a split second. How you handle it afterward is what makes it all worthwhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Rough Morning

_Well, I am imagining_  
 _A dark lit place  
_ _Or your place or my place_

-"Paralyzer," by Finger Eleven

* * *

Warren Peace was not a morning person.

This wasn't a very commonly known fact, but Warren was reminded almost every weekday morning when he was forced to haul his ass out of bed at 6:30 in the morning. This morning, he knew, was not a weekday, because it was not the blaring of his alarm clock that had woken him up. No, it was the dull, repetitive pounding in his skull and the sharp, piercing light invading his eyelids. This was the clear aftereffects of a hangover from hell, something that he was fortunately not very familiar with, but had enough previous knowledge with alcohol to know this was the result of those damned shots of tequila Stronghold felt the need to pass around to the other Supers.

His mother had left on a call from the Justice League. They needed a Super who specialized in telekinesis, and Angela Peace was one of best telekinetics in the country. This meant Warren was left on his own in their small, rented ranch-style house. This also meant that simple processes like shutting the blinds were lost on an eighteen-year-old guy.

In lieu of rolling out of bed, stumbling across the room, and slamming the blinds shut, Warren settled for slinging a tanned, muscled arm over his eyes. His head was still pounding like a steel drum to a beat of its own, but at least the sharp pain behind his eyeballs was slowly beginning to fade.

"Hmnh…"

That noise did not come from Warren. He was sure of it. They had a cat, which was to say that his mother had a cat, a skinny little tabby with a tiny bell around its neck. Once in a blue moon, when the cat wandered into his room, the tiny little bell would go off incessantly, like a never-ending ringing.

This was not that sound.

"Ngh."

There was a very good chance that actually fully waking up and opening his eyes would lead to nothing Warren wanted to deal with. In fact, at this point, it was probably safer for him if he just ignored the-

"Damn… where… is it?"

Okay. He wasn't going to be able to ignore that. That was the sound of another human being in this house, someone who was in his room and, from the sound of it, was rifling through his things. There was no way there was someone in his house. How the fuck…?

He lifted his arm slightly, peeking out through the crook of his arm and trying not to groan at the almost blinding light as his sore eyes adjusted to the bright lights of Saturday morning. When he was finally able to make out more than just purple spots on a bright white background, he was able to see the source of the noise. There was a person- a female person, judging by the curves as she bent down to search for something- in his room, nosing through his clothing, most of which was scattered on the floor, and wearing what looked like his favorite Guns N' Roses T-shirt. And not much else.

"Son of a…" His mysterious roommate straightened up, tossing her hair over shoulder and gathering some clothes up into a ball. "What did I do to deserve this…?"

Warren rubbed his aching head, and propped himself up on his elbows. Yes, the sudden motion _did_ make the world tilt disturbingly off its axis and spin dangerously all around him. But it was a necessary evil, because he needed to make sure- check with his own two eyes- that the girl standing in his room, wearing his Guns N' Roses t-shirt that barely ended at the tops of her thighs, was actually the person he thought it was…

"Layla?"

 

* * *

Today was not destined to be a good day. Not only did she wake up to the lovely sight of her completely naked body twisted around Warren's albeit warm, lean, and strong torso, but she also woke up with a frustrating blank on everything and anything that happened the night before.

There was Will's "legendary" end-of-the-year/Fourth of July/Graduation/birthday party that, after their mutual breakup midway through sophomore year, she had chosen to avoid like the plague… Who wanted to deal with a bunch of teenage Heroes (and a handful of Hero Supporters, because the school was _still_ biased, even after the Homecoming Debacle of '06), wasted and horny? She sure as hell didn't.

The only reason she had deigned to visit the bash, which, by 9:30, was fully raging and threatening to turn into a riot (in her opinion), was because of Warren. It was his last year, so he deserved to go out and have some good wholesome fun.

Okay, so picking Will's party as a source of "wholesome" fun had probably been a bad idea from the start, but at the time, she and Magenta had thought it was a great alternative to what they were initially planning on doing- picking up Zach and Ethan and watching the latest Angelina Jolie flick.

They still picked up Ethan and Zach, they just took a tiny detour to Will's house along the way… without letting Warren know.

Once they got there, everything got a little bit… fuzzy. Layla remembered sharing a beer with Magenta (normally she was against drinking on principle, but Ethan had volunteered to be the designated driver and she hadn't saw the harm in having a few sips), and watching Warren stubbornly separate from the group, most likely to sulk somewhere.

After that… she couldn't remember. It was all one big blur, and one huge mess. She had slithered out of Warren's grasp the second she could, and threw on the first article of clothing she could find- an ancient Guns N' Roses t-shirt that was probably new back when her father was into head-banging.

From there, it was a mad rush to find her clothing and hightail it out of there. Layla was a good girl by nature, and not accustomed to the rituals entailed in the Walk of Shame. If she wasn't so freaking humiliated and embarrassed, she might have felt the need to stick around until Warren woke up, at which point they would discuss everything that happened and how it might affect their friendship.

Ah, who the hell was she kidding? This was Warren. They'd never have a conversation like that.

It didn't help matters that Warren's room was a proverbial pig's sty. Everything was littered on the floor, raging from old copies of _Rolling Stone_ to ripped jeans to at least half a dozen black t-shirts… And not a single scrap of her clothing to be found.

Wait- there was something! Triumphant, Layla wrestled her comfiest pair of jeans out from under Warren's heavy combat boots and… socks? Well, at least she knew what order those articles of clothing came off. Not that that information was comforting in the slightest, but still. She had found her jeans. Now all that was left was… the rest of her outfit.

Layla stood up, resisting the urge to groan in frustration. True, she had been muttering not-so-innocent obscenities under her breath for the past fifteen minutes or so, but it wasn't like Warren could actually hear her. The guy slept like a rock. Nothing would wake him up.

She tossed her long red hair over one shoulder, well aware that her hair was a mess, and probably only a few tangles away from entering Rat's Nest status.

Her clothing had to be in this room… somewhere. She took off her jeans! This meant her underwear had to be in the room, because she certainly wasn't wearing it. If she didn't find it soon, she might have to cope with the idea of leaving her panties for Warren find, because she wouldn't be coming back for them, even if they were a set at Victoria's Secret that cost her almost fifty bucks.

"Layla?"

Her big, brown eyes widened to the size of saucers and she silently mouthed the word, "Shit." Warren was up? When did that happen? Why didn't she notice? Why hadn't she turned around already?

Turning sharply on her heel, Layla smiled briefly and said, "Hi, Warren. Listen, umm, you clearly just got up, and I'm just gonna go collect the rest of my things and be on my way, 'kay?" She flashed him a significantly brighter smile, but knew there was no point. One glance at Warren's black-brown eyes told her all the information she needed.

He wasn't buying it.

 

* * *

Warren wasn't buying it. The hippie would have to be wasted _and_ high to think she could honestly pull a fast one over him, and he knew she was neither. Hung over, possibly, but she was still perfectly lucid.

"What happened here, Layla?" he asked slowly, his voice gravelly and low from a combination of the hangover and just waking up.

Layla's eyes skittered down to his bare chest, back up to his eyes, then over to the clock on his nightstand. Finally, she dropped the deer-in-headlights look and ran a hand through her long red hair, which he noticed was almost down to the small of her back. The hippie didn't wear her hair down often enough, in his opinion.

"Shit, Warren," she mumbled, startling him from his reverie from her offhanded curse. The hippie never usually cursed. She hated using foul language. "I don't know. I can't remember anything from last night, other than dragging you to Will's party and sharing a beer with Magenta. I don't know what happened, because something had to, if I was suddenly so willing to have possibly unprotected sex with a friend. Shit, I don't even know how we got from the party to here. I mean, this is your house, right? Because I really don't want to contend with the idea of breaking into someone's house and-" She cut off abruptly, opting to tangle her fingers in her hair once more and sigh.

"This is my house," he replied, smiling slightly. Hey, if he couldn't find the humor in this situation, it was going to be a very long day, and it was already starting off pretty bad. A quick mental check confirmed that, at some point during the night, he'd pulled on a pair of boxers before passing out for the night. This meant he was safe to throw off the covers and stand up- except there was something caught on his foot.

Warren didn't remember hallucinations ever being a symptom of a typical hangover, but he could always be wrong. Why else would there be this emerald green scrap of fabric tangled around his foot?

Peeling it off, Warren lifted it up to the light. It was two scraps of green lace, connected to each other by matching pieces of string… "What the hell?" he muttered under his breath.

* * *

The second Layla recognized what Warren was holding, she lunged for it, snatching it out of his hands before he could do anything. Blushing furiously, she tucked the tiny little thing into the pocket of her jeans and said, "Uhh… that wasn't yours."

Warren smirked slightly. "I figured that much out, hippie."

Layla blinked. "Right. Of course," she said, blushing to her roots, "Listen, umm… can I use your bathroom? I, umm, want to get cleaned up…"

Warren nodded once and pointed towards the door. "It's the first door to your right." He turned around, finding the jeans from the previous night in a crumpled heap on the ground and pulled them on. It was probably easier if he got dressed quickly and saved Layla from anymore awkward glances. He was just reaching for another shirt when he heard her voice carry down into his room. "Oh…my…"

Warren walked out of his room and turned to the bathroom, but stopped short at the door. The bathroom wasn't much cleaner than his own room. The shower curtain had been ripped from its hooks, and was in a tangled heap, half out of the tub. Everything that had been on the sink- toothbrushes, toothpaste, plastic cups, soap, and more- were scattered across the ground. In between the knocked over bottles of Advil and Excedrin was the ratty gray long-sleeved shirt he'd worn the night before on the ground. There was a black t-shirt overtop from last night, but it didn't appear to be anywhere in the room. He did spot a cheery yellow tank top that he knew had to belong to Layla. He stepped into the room, unsure how to handle this situation. His dad hadn't been in his life long enough to offer tips on relationships, and, even if he had, Warren doubted he'd have anything to say in this instance.

"What… this…" Layla stared blankly at the medicine cabinet, hanging wide open, two of the three shelves broken and most of the contents either on the ground or in the sink. " _We_ did this. Oh… my… Hera, help me…"

When he walked into the bathroom, he stopped short when he noticed something else on the ground. Emerald green, lacy… Glancing over at Layla, he asked, "Those, uhh, panties you were wearing? They weren't… part of a set, were they?"

Layla didn't look over, just stared miserably at her limp and wrinkled shirt. "Yeah," she said softly, "They were. Wait- how did you-" She glanced over at him, then did a double-take in horror at what he was holding up. Sure enough, there was her bra, the second half of the set she'd only decided to wear because it was expensive and she never had an occasion to wear it. And now, not 24 hours after putting it on, Warren was holding up across his broad chest like he might want to wear it.

"Well," he said, "Let's just say that I _know_ this isn't mine." Layla shut her eyes and counted slowly backwards from ten. Maybe if she got her breathing just right, she'd wake up from this horrible nightmare.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but no words came out. It was like her life had hit such an unbreakable wall that she couldn't have seen coming with three psychics and a couple of telepaths, and she had absolutely no friggin' idea where to take it from there. She just settled for holding out her hand, and Warren dutifully handed her the bra. Before she could pull her hand away, he grabbed her wrist- not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force that she knew she wasn't going anywhere.

"Listen, Layla, I'm sorry this happened…"

" _Listen, hippie, if we do this tonight you're gonna be sorry tomorrow morning."_

" _No, I'm not."_

" _Then say it. Say you won't be sorry tomorrow morning."_

" _I won't be sorry tomorrow morning, hothead. Now stop talking and-"_

"…and it really will be okay. I mean, worse things, could've happened, right? Isn't that always what you chipper optimists are going on about?"

Layla blinked rapidly, confused. She had completely zoned out- one second she was talking to Warren, the next, she was… remembering a conversation… with Warren.

Pulling her wrist out of his grasp, she put a hand to her forehead and sat down on the toilet cover. "I think I just remembered something about last night," she said, staring at the tiles and pinching the bridge of her nose. She didn't have a headache, but she was getting tired from all of her freaking out. She needed to calm down for a few seconds and relax. Maybe then she would remember more of the night before.

"What do you remember?"

Layla smiled bitterly and replied, "I don't know where we were, but you made me promise not to say I wouldn't be sorry tomorrow morn- I mean, today."

Warren didn't make eye contact, just leaned up against the sink. "Oh, I did, did I? How courteous of me."

She grinned slightly, more then ever aware of how weird and uncomfortable and completely _natural_ this all was. They were joking around, like nothing had ever happened. It was almost like… any other day. Oh, except she wasn't wearing any underwear and an old t-shirt from the seventies or eighties that wasn't hers, and, oh yeah, she couldn't remember anything from last night. So it still wasn't quite any other day. She continued to stare down at the tiles, and noticed there was a small waste bin next to her. Glancing at its contents, a wry and cynical smile appeared on her face, and she shook her head at her bizarre and unpredictable luck.

"That's one less thing we need to worry about," she said, tipping the waste bin slightly so Warren could see.

When he did, his eyebrows shot up in surprise and he looked up at her. "Twice?" he asked, like he wasn't sure if he was seeing things or not.

Layla picked up the garbage can. "What do you mean, 'twice?'" she repeated. When she saw what he was talking about, her mouth formed into a little 'o' of surprise. There were not one but _two_ condoms in the waste bin. Logically, that would mean…

"Twice."

Layla set the bin down, then snorted. "I can't believe this," she said. She wasn't sure how many times she'd already said that aloud; she'd said it about a billion times in her head so far.

Warren didn't say any for several minutes, but Layla was okay with sitting miserably in silence. Finally, he said, "Layla, I was wondering… Uhhh… last night wasn't your, uhh…"

"First time?" she offered, smiling, barely. "No. I, um, made the mistake of losing my virginity to Will in our sophomore year. Bad idea, because not only was it generally all over terrible, but I also found out it that night was insanely awkward to sleep with a guy that might as well be your brother, not boyfriend. How 'bout you? I mean, I doubt I was the girl lucky enough to deflower Warren Peace."

Holy crap on a cracker, what was she saying? She didn't say shit like that! Shit, she didn't say shit! She was supposed to be a good girl. True, she made the mistake to losing her virginity to a guy she only kind of liked towards the end, but she was still good! She wanted to save people! And the animals! And the rain forest! People like that didn't carelessly make allusions to "deflowering" Warren Peace! And what the hell had made her decide to use the term 'deflowering'?

He quirked a brow at her oh-so-casually offhanded comment but accepted it anyway. Thank the gods, too. If he had questioned her on that one, she wasn't sure if she would have anything at all to say.

"Jennifer Frost. Sophomore year. A week after Homecoming."

If it had been humanly possible, Layla's eyeballs would've popped right out of her head. "A _week_ after Homecoming?" she repeated, incredulous. "When I was a freshman? Oh, shit, I slept with a manwhore."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, there, her brain seemed to urge her. First she brings up deflowering, and now she's on to declaring Warren a manwhore? What next, was she gonna get a part-time job as a stripper?

Okay. Maybe that was a stretch.

"I'm a manwhore because I slept with Jenny?"

"No," she said, standing up. "You're a manwhore because you slept with her after knowing her a week."

"She was in two of my classes at that time, hippie," he said, eyeing where the t-shirt met the tops of her thighs.

Rolling her eyes, Layla tugged the shirt down as low as she could and replied, "Oh, please. She may have been in two of your classes, but it wasn't like you ever talked to her before that night. Before I bothered you with all my dumb problems at the Paper Lantern and forced you to hang out with my friends, you didn't talk to anyone."

"Should I be eternally grateful I get to be friends with a bunch of clueless sidekicks?"

"Don't be mean, Warren" she gently chastised, "We're your best friends and you know it."

"I wasn't talking about you, hippie," he said, looking her in the eye.

There was a pause when they just stared into each other's eyes and Layla felt this inexplicable tingle run the base of her spine. She had felt that same sensation last night, right before they kissed… in the Strongholds' bathroom.

Layla finally looked away, running her hand through her messy hair. "I, uh, think I just remembered something else," she said, her voice low and soft. "I think, whatever happened, it started in the bathroom. Not this bathroom. At Will's house."

"Will's bathroom?" Warren repeatedly dubiously. "That's… different. I wonder how Stronghold would take it he found out about-"

"No!" Layla practically shouted, immediately shoving a stubby thumbnail in her mouth and biting down savagely. "You know I don't mean it as an insult, but I don't want anyone to find out…" She knew she was seconds away from crying, but she didn't really feel bad about it. She had never been so stressed out in her life… and it wasn't even 12 o'clock in the afternoon!

When Warren realized how upset she was, his demeanor did a 180, or as damned close to it as he ever could. A normal person's entire expression and possibly posture would change- when Will did it, she was almost always reminded of a puppy that had just been kicked (not a very romantic thought)- but with Warren, almost no changes were visible. It was only because she was such close friends with him that she easily picked up tiny nuances, like the way his eyebrows would quirk down and his frown would deepen.

"Look, hippie, I didn't mean to upset you," he said, shutting his eyes for a few seconds. "I made a stupid joke, and I didn't figure you'd take me seriously. I would never tell anyone about this, especially if you didn't want people to know, and I'd never tell Stronghold, even if you instructed me to do so."

She covered her face, still trying not to cry. Warren would never have told anyone. She knew that explicitly, and it was only a testament to how truly stressed she was that she actually considered that Warren would do something so thoughtless. She needed to go back to bed. Okay, poor choice of words. She needed to go home, and then back to her _own_ bed.

Maybe if she fell back asleep, she'd wake up and this would turn out to be just another disturbing nightmare.

She could only be so lucky.

She stood up, inhaling deeply and trying desperately to control her breathing. Just because this was a mistake did not mean she had to go totally off the deep end. All of this was fixable, it just took time and patience, both of which she in spades.

"Okay," she said, exhaling slowly and smiling. "I'm going to collect the rest of my clothing, and we will discuss this further on Monday. Are you working at the Lantern that night?"

Warren nodded once, pursing his lips in what she assumed was his attempt at smiling. That was enough of a response for her, so she slipped past him and through the door, walking down the short hallway, painted a cheery and somewhat calming pale yellow.

She knew Warren's apartment fairly well, after spending a few weekends with the rest of the gang watching old action movies, and once helping him make pasta for his mom on Mother's Day. He was a great busboy and waiter, but a sorry cook.

Her shirt, oddly enough, was in the small kitchen, on top of the even smaller island. Right in the middle of the tiny kitchen, she slid on her panties and tugged on her jeans, buttoning them under the Guns N' Roses t-shirt. Across the kitchen was the living room, where she could plainly see her black flip-flops lying on the ground, on top of Warren's sturdy and worn combat boots. She stepped into the flip-flops and threw the rest of her clothing into her favorite cloth purse.

She wanted to say goodbye to Warren, but she was too flustered and embarrassed and overall freaked out to actually say anything at all. So, she slipped out of the house, shutting the door as silently as possible behind her, and headed down the sidewalk. She was really fortunate she lived only two streets down from Warren; she really didn't think she could handle having to get a ride home from him.

Layla rifled through her purse, quickly locating her mint green Chocolate cell phone, and called her first speed dial number.

"Magenta?" she said, when she heard her pick up the phone. "I did a very bad thing."


	2. One Awkward Afternoon

_But so far has not been good_  
 _It's been shitty  
_ _And I feel awkward as I should_

\- "Paralyzer," by Finger Eleven

* * *

"This is just fuckin' nuts," Magenta said, robotically folding yet another paisley, pastel-colored button-down blouse. The idea was bizarre, the Punk Princess working at American Eagle at the Maxville Mall. Neither she nor Layla ever shopped at the overpriced store, but Mage was happy with the pay and Layla was okay to hang out and watch amusedly as customers and coworkers alike glowered at the two of them.

"Was he any good?" she asked, sneering as she set down a petal pink top on the table.

Layla felt her cheeks turn roughly the color of a ripe tomato. She pointedly stared down at the color-coded array of shirts, smoothing out a pale aqua shirt and chewing her bottom lip in shame and embarrassment. "You know I don't remember," she said, "But there are a few parts I kind of recall. Sort of. I just couldn't tell you when they happened or where."

Two days and a dozen or so hours had passed since that morning. She would remember flashes in bits and pieces, and they would frustrate her a little more every time.

_She shoved Warren up against a wall, enjoying the feeling of their bodies pressed close together. He was lean and broad and muscular, and if the alcohol and his kisses weren't making her lose it, the feel of his muscles alone was sure to make her go off the deep end._

"Well?" Magenta asked, stopping her reverie with a smirk and a knowing look. "What about the ones you _do_ remember?"

If it was possible, Layla blushed even harder than before. She went back to staring at the piles of clothing laid out strategically on the table, and mumbled, "It wasn't bad…"

Magenta snorted. "That's what I thought," she replied.

It was hard for her not to groan. "You're not funny," she replied, pushing her hair out of her face and rubbing her temples tiredly. "This is so, so horrible. I don't know what I'm going to say to him."

"I thought you guys agreed that you weren't going to talk about it," Magenta said, not bothering to look up from folding yet another carbon copy piece of clothing.

"We aren't," she said firmly. "It's just… I can't believe this happened. I can't believe I did this. It's completely unforgiveable!"

"Umm, I hate to burst your little bubble, but it can't be entirely your fault. I mean, unless you attacked Warren, which I highly doubt, but normally, it takes two to tango."

Layla smiled and looked up. "I'm well aware of that. But if I hadn't dragged him to Will's dumb party, none of this would've happened. He wouldn't have gotten drunk, I wouldn't have gotten drunk, and neither one of us would have woken up naked with a complete blank for the events of the night before!"

One of Magenta's coworkers, a skinny little thing with a lot of bottle-blonde hair dressed head to toe in AE, glared daggers at Layla. She hadn't meant to say that so loud, but she was pretty strung out and couldn't be held responsible for the volume of her voice.

Dropping her voice, she said, "I need to know what happened Friday night. Maybe if I remember what happened, or why it happened, I'll be able to stop freaking out so much."

Magenta looked skeptical at what she thought was very sound logic. "You think _that's_ what's going to make you stop freaking out so much? Really?"

"Well, yeah," Layla replied, half-shrugging. "Do you remember anything about last night?"

"Sure I do," Magenta said, staring at her friend. "But you don't play a real big part in it. I remember sharing a beer with you, laughing at Penny when she got turned down by that Spanish exchange student who can control metal, making out with Zach for a while, and leaving. I think I remember seeing you leave with Warren, but I didn't see any kind of hanky-panky going on, so I might've imagined it."

Layla sighed, letting her shoulders slump. That didn't help her at all, but what did she expect? Magenta to have all the answers?

"I guess I'm just going to have to talk to Warren," she said, sighing once more.

Magenta smirked. "I guess so."

* * *

Layla had to seek Warren out. Everyone was buzzing about what went down at Will's bash, but not one word was breathed about her or Warren. She was thankful for that much.

The only class she shared with him was Power Training with Coach Boomer, but that was the last class of the day, and she was very certain she could not wait that long. She had barely made it all the way through to third period. A good amount of time had passed since she last heard from Warren, so maybe he had something new to tell her. She needed some good news.

"Warren?" she asked, almost stumbling when some 6-foot freshman slammed into her in the hallway. Warren turned just in time to grab her arm and pull her close to him, away from the stampede of cattle- err, freshmen.

She collided with his body, knocking the breath out of her. She swallowed hard and looked up at him, the close position causing her to temporarily forget any residual awkwardness.

She rested her palms on his chest and tried to find the words- any words, for that matter- that would diffuse this situation. He was a lot taller, almost half a foot, but-

_-the height difference was barely an issue. When they were standing next to one another, it was so apparent, but when they were kissing like they were, and he was pressing against her like that, she didn't even notice the disparity. In fact, the way he was crowding around her, hard muscle and hot skin, she was beginning to relish how much bigger he was and how he used his size to his advantage. It was really-_

"-distracting?" Warren asked, and Layla realized she hadn't absorbed a word he'd said. She was off in la-la land again, spacing.

It was so damn aggravating. She couldn't remember anything, and the only parts she did remember were just inconsequential, no matter how pleasantly distracting as they may be. She needed to focus, and get back to the present.

"I'm sorry," she said, stepping back, only to crash into another student and wind up right back in Warren's arm. "I'm sorry," she repeated once again, smiling weakly. "This is… I just wanted to talk to you. About Friday night."

She could've sworn she felt Warren's grip on her hips tighten, almost imperceptibly. "I thought there was nothing to talk about," he said, slowly, as if he was trying to jog her memory from the decision made on Saturday.

"I know that," Layla said, well aware that her voice was shaky and a little uneven. She was still in close proximity to him, and it was getting to be extremely hard for her to pay attention. She didn't know how someone could just exude so much heat and power from their every waking pore.

"I can't focus," she blurted out, finally stepping away from Warren successfully. "And I know- I just know- that the only way I can stop freaking out is if I- we- I figure out what happened, and why it happened, and why I- we- I-" She covered her eyes with her hands and groaned. She couldn't think without spacing out, she couldn't talk without sounding like a psycho… she just couldn't _do_ anything.

Warren set his jaw, opened his mouth to speak, and then set his jaw once more. "I hate to disappoint you, hippie," he said, "But I don't have anything to tell you." He brushed past her and walked down the hallway, just in time for the third period bell to ring.

Layla's eyebrows shot up, and she turned slowly, watching him walk away from her. She was speechless. She had just been brushed off… by Warren, of all people! She saw the look on his face before he told her that he nothing to say, and that little glimpse told her so much more than what he was willing to share. Warren was hiding something from her, an idea that seemed so ridiculous, she almost immediately blew it off.

But she saw his face. She saw his expression. He wanted to tell her something, something that had to do with her question- and, thus, something that was very important.

Layla begin to walk to her third period class, one question stuck in her head, repeating over and over again.

Why wouldn't he tell her?

* * *

"He blew me off! He fucking blew me off!" Layla ranted, pacing back and forth in the cramped room, tightening her ponytail for what had to be the tenth time in three minutes.

"If I wasn't so worried that you might wear a hole in my carpet, I'd say it's pretty fuckin' hilarious to watch you say the word 'fuck,'" Magenta said, petting her fluffy grey cat- aptly named 'Bruiser'- as she kicked aside some various piles of worn clothing.

Magenta's room was what Layla might expect if a mad scientist invited his former frat buddies to his house for a kegger. Mage was very smart, and she was awesome at whipping up all sorts of concoctions that would be useful for her as a Hero Supporter. She even made a serum that made the drinker invisible, for about five minutes. Her uncle on her dad's side had similar powers, and she used some of his blood to figure the science behind it.

She didn't let anyone know it, but on the inside, Magenta was a huge nerd.

Because of her penchant for science and her messy habits, there were all kinds of empty, half-empty, and full bottles, jars, and test tubes littered across the room, a few even lying on the ground. In between the somewhat dangerous-looking science experiments were clothing, empty food wrappers, and guinea pig hair, everywhere.

Layla rolled her eyes impatiently, and went back to pacing. "Whatever," she mumbled halfheartedly, but her heart wasn't into their normally witty banter. "At least my room doesn't look like Mr. Medulla's lab threw up in it."

Mage glared sourly at her. "It does not," she replied, picking up a small beaker full of clear lime green liquid that foamed bright pink when she shook it thoughtfully.

"You could be a Hero, if only because of your skills with a Bunsen burner," Layla said, shaking her head. "You could be a mad scientist, actually. But you're not a villain, which is nice, because I don't think I could handle another Royal Pain debacle."

"Me neither," Magenta agreed, picking up a test tube full of cloudy dark blue liquid that swirled in random patterns every few seconds. She tipped half the contents of the tube into the beaker, and watched with narrowed eyes as the clear green turned dark purple-black and shined with opalescent blue streaks. She sniffed the beaker experimentally, and moved it to take a sip.

"Mage!" Layla exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Don't drink that! You don't know what will happen!"

Rolling her eyes, Magenta smirked. "Uhh, Layla, yes I do," she said, "Because I made this, I kind of know what's in it. And, anyway, that's the only way I ever figure out shit like possible side effects and what might be wrong." She smiled confidently and took a hearty sip from the beaker. Almost immediately, her eyes turned an ethereal shade of pearl white, with no pupils or irises.

Layla slapped her hands over her face, and tried not to freak out. "Oh my God!" she shouted, "Your eyes!"

"Great, it does work," Mage said, looking around the room, apparently oblivious to the fact that Layla was right next to her, freaking out. "This'll make things so much easier for Heroes to work as spies. X-ray vision without the goggles."

"Umm, I hate to be the one to point this out, but your eyes are _white_ ," Layla said, putting one hand over her chest. "That's not really going to make anyone fit in."

Magenta stood up, and stared into her mirror. "Huh," she said, gently patting the skin under and around her eyes. "It _is_ a pretty noticeable change. I'm going to have to mix this with something that will retain the same properties, but keep the eye color. Maybe that formula I made sophomore year to allow a person to change any feature at will. Hmm…"

The redhead sighed and collapsed onto the bed, narrowly missing falling on Bruiser. "You are absolutely zero help," she mumbled. "Not that there's anyone I know that could help me right now."

"Other than Mr. Personality," Magenta replied snidely, not missing a beat. She wrapped a thick purple towel around her hand, and held it up to her face. "I wonder how long this lasts."

Layla glanced out the window, sighing to herself morosely. "So do I," she whispered.

* * *

It wasn't a totally conscious decision on her part, but that night, she found herself walking to the Lantern. If Warren wanted to hide something from her, he was going to have one sorry time avoiding it at work.

She smiled cautiously when he spotted her, only about twenty feet in the building. His face definitely clouded with annoyance, and there was no point denying it.

She walked across the narrow space between tables, smiling when a two-year-old knocked into her shin. When he was in talking distance, she said, "Hey, I know school was hairy today, so I wanted to talk to you. Y'know, about That Night."

Warren shrugged, pressing his mouth in a firm line. "That's nice, hippie," he replied, giving a cursory glance around the room, obviously desperate to find any tables that might need his cleaning. "But I have work to do, and tables to bus." He stepped around her and began to walk away, towards the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen.

Layla narrowed her eyes. He was openly lying to her _and_ avoiding her. What the hell was going on? What was so big or so bad that he absolutely _refused_ to tell her about it?

What the hell did he remember?

This was getting friggin' aggravating. She wanted to know everything- she _deserved_ to know everything. He had no right to avoid her _now_. She was too freaked out and insecure and plain old desperate to have him start treating her like a second-class citizen.

"Sonuvabitch," she growled, and stalked off after him.

"Dammit, Warren! Why do you keep ignoring me?!" she hissed, following him doggedly as he weaved around the crowded tables. Just because he was avoiding her did not mean she was going to let this go. There was something he wasn't telling her, and if it had to do with that night, she had every right to know about it.

"Because I have absolutely nothing to tell you!" He walked past an obnoxiously cute table, currently engaging in a level of PDA that had her wondering if they were going to get kicked out of the building. Of course, the heavy (and disgusting) make out session did nothing to deter her.

"You know it's useless at this point," she said, walking with him as he turned the corner. This was the back of the restaurant, where the busboys and waiters hung out until the food was served. There was a unisex bathroom in the corner and a stack of booster seats and highchairs. She had been there, once or twice, and knew the workers stopped there as little as possible. "I know you're hiding something, and I want to know what you insist on keeping it from me!"

Warren set the dishrag down on one highchair and turned on Layla. "You don't want to know," he responded, tense with barely concealed anger and frustration. She could see the muscles bunch up under his tanned skin, the heat that was radiating from his skin even from three feet away.

She noticed all these little nuances distractedly, not really absorbing the spark in his black-brown eyes, or the set of his square jaw. She was too wrapped up in her own problems to pick up on the important things.

"Yes, I _do_ want to know," she said, impatiently, and ran both hands through her long and wavy hair. "Because I can't sleep- can't eat, I can't think, I can't breathe- without being dogged by that stupid night! I keep getting _taunted_ by idiotic glimpses and I just _know_ that the only way my friggin' brain can move on is if I finally get the whole fucking picture, okay?! And all I want, all I really, really want, is to move on. Because all this drama, this frustration, this _aggravation_ , is just too much for me. So, please, Warren, this one last time, just do me one last favor _and tell me_."

Warren snorted and looked away for a few seconds, then his dark eyes snapped back to her and he said, "You want me to tell you? Fine."

One second Layla was a few feet away from Warren, glaring at him for all she was worth, the next he had her pushed up against the wall, boxed in by his toned, muscular arms. If she hadn't noticed all those important little things before, she was certainly catching up on them now. The air, what little was left between them, arced up, two, three, maybe five degrees, and she could feel the never-ending tension between them crackle with heat and electricity, foreshadowing things yet to come.

Her brown eyes were wide and her lips were parted, but that had nothing on Warren's expression. His eyes- that look in his eyes- she never believed in those silly little romance novels Magenta bought just to make fun of, but that look in his eyes- she could only describe it as smoldering. And then she finally realized- or maybe she always knew, just never truly appreciated- Warren was very good looking. She was cornered, in a poorly lit hallway that was rarely frequented, by a handsome guy that- from what she _did_ remember- was one hell of a kisser.

When all of this vital information finally did sink in, she was unsure what to do. She bit on her bottom lip, fretting some, and said, "Warren?"

She had only said his name, but there must've been something in the way she said it- her inflection, the uncertain, breathy voice brought on by stress and confusion, and maybe just a little lust- because his coal eyes darkened even further as his hands dropped to her waist and he latched his mouth on the delicate skin of her neck.

She gasped. She couldn't help it. It was an involuntary reaction, just like how her eyes shut closed, and how her hands shot up to rest on his shoulders, bunching the black cotton material and encouraging his actions.

Warren moved up her neck at a tantalizingly slow pace, pressing hot, wet kisses against her cooler skin, until he stopped just below her ear. "Are you happy now?" he growled, and she couldn't deny the flame of arousal that settled itself deep in her belly.

She couldn't honestly remember what he was talking about, but she did have the decency to open up her eyes and sigh once more, hoping he would accept that as a sign to continue on. At the moment, she didn't have the air in her lungs, let alone the brain function, to formulate a verbal response.

He seemed to accept it just fine.

"I don't remember any part of why it happened, or when, or what caused it," he said, and she tried not to lose herself in how ragged and gravelly his voice sounded, and the all the fun effects it was having on her every nerve ending. "The only thing I remember is you, and those goddamned _noises_ you made that night."

His fingertips tightened around her hips, the pad of his thumb absentmindedly tracing her hipbone, where her shirt had rode up and her jean miniskirt didn't quite cover. She breathed out sharply through her nose, and tilted her neck ever so slightly to the right, giving him better access to more skin.

He picked up on her not so subtle hint, and chuckled, a sound that reverberated all the way through her body, down to her toes. He nuzzled her neck, almost affectionately, and Layla whimpered a little, maddened by his actions.

"I remember that sound," he whispered into her ear, sending all sorts of shivers down her spine and across her back. "You made that little noise a lot. It was almost as frustrating to hear as when you said my name that one way."

One of his hands ghosted under her shirt, pushing the thin fabric past her flat stomach eliciting goosebumps to rise across the now bare skin. His fingertips brushed against the fabric of her cotton bra, not quite touching anything.

"Warren," she said, her voice unlike her, uneven and breathy. His inquisitive fingers stopped their teasing, and he pressed a kiss against the sensitive patch of skin where her ear met her jaw. She let her eyes flutter close once again, and she breathed out a sigh of relief she hadn't realized she had been holding.

"That was what I was talking about," he continued, loosening his grip on her other hip as thumb began to work its way under her bra. "It's like I have this map in my brain, and I know exactly what spot makes you make what noise. I wouldn't mind so much if those noises weren't so damned maddening." His thumb found her nipple, and she couldn't hold back the low moan from escaping her lips. She could hear the smirk in his voice as he continued his ministrations, but she could do little more than pant and whimper.

"Do you know how fucking frustrating it is to hear your moan in my head, when I'm trying to do homework?" he asked her, rhetorically, and she bit her lip as his other hand left her hip, travelling south, toward the hem of her miniskirt. "Do you know how distracting it is to hear you say my name, over and over again, like a friggin' broken record, when I'm supposed to be busing tables? I've broken four plates since that night. Because of you, and your noises."

She finally released the bunched up material, barely noticing how her fingers felt tight from gripping his shirt so tight for so long. She instead threaded her fingers into his hair, desperate for something to do other than moan.

His hand was creeping up her thigh, taunting her with the deliberate slowness as he pushed past her miniskirt and reached the juncture of her legs. She whimpered his name again, and was slightly satisfied to hear him groan into her neck.

"If you keep saying my name like that, I'm gonna lose it," he said, pressing rather insistently against her hips, so she could feel the effect her voice was having on him.

She chuckled, light and breathlessly, and whispered back, "Join the club." She was going to add something else when he pushed her panties aside and slid a finger into her.

He kissed her, on the lips this time, which swallowed up the full moan she was about to release. He kept kissing her, tongues sliding against one another, as his hands did all sorts of wonderful, frustrating things that she was sure was going to make her go insane.

She quickly found herself losing all control, letting time go by as fast as it could. All she could focus on was Warren, and the way he was so in tune with her body, and the way she really was losing it, faster than she ever would've expected.

The release was just as toe-curling and satisfying as the buildup, and it took a few minutes of languid kissing before she could even think to get her jumbled mess of thoughts into order. Regrettably, he moved his hands from her body, an action that brought one last whimper tumbling from her lips.

Warren smirked at her reaction, staring deep into her eyes as he tugged her shirt down her belly and very deliberately straightened her panties and miniskirt. She didn't dare move from her spot against the wall, because she didn't trust her legs just yet to walk all the way down the hallway, let alone out of the building.

"Are you happy now?" he repeated, before turning to leave.

She didn't know where she found the energy, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him toward her, so he was flush against her petite body. She pulled his head down for one last, maddening kiss, sucking all of the breath out of him and leaving him wanting more.

"Are you happy now, Warren?" she responded, letting her voice get as breathless as she could manage, before finishing off with one final, little moan for good measure.

She didn't know where she got the energy, or what inspired her to be so decidedly evil, but she managed to slip past Warren, who was finally stunned into silence, and walk out of the building, head held high.

It still felt like her knees couldn't support her all the way home, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

Maybe Friday's bad thing could turn into one hell of a good thing.


End file.
